Panic down on the farm

“SCREEEEEE!!” screamed the tiny creature as it flapped into our car through my open window, landing somewhere between the door and my lap.

Five seconds before that, if you’d asked me where I’d put “keeping the car on the road” on my list of priorities, I’d probably have ranked it somewhere near the top.  All of a sudden, though, ramming into a roadside tree seemed like a pretty decent option.

People will try to tell you that vegetables are healthy (stay with me here), which is why my wife Kara signed us up for a deal with a local farm where we pick up a trash bag full of kale each week, but as we drove down the dusty farm driveway last Saturday, I couldn’t help but think that life seemed much healthier before we put ourselves in places where indeterminate organisms flew screaming into our car, attempting to make us perform vehicular treeslaughter.

“Dude!  What is that?  WHAT IS IT?” I screamed, back when Kara handed me my first green smoothie.

“It’s strawberries and banana,” she replied.

“Then why is it green?” I asked.

“It also has kale, chard, kohlrabi, bok choy, arugula, Caligula, jack-in-the-pulpit, Congolese shrieking peppers and horseturnips in it,” she said.  Or something like that.  She lost me at kale.  I’m pretty sure that she made up all the words after that, anyway.

“Oh, just try it.  It’s good,” she said, and I stared at her, waiting for her to mumble, “for you.”

Ever since we started doing this farm share, Kara has been sneaking vegetables into everything, aided by the VitaMix blender she recently purchased.  You may recognize VitaMix from their tagline: “You’re poor now.  Have a smoothie to take your mind off it!”   

After buying this fancy new blender, Kara took our old sixteen-dollar (perfectly fine) blender and stuffed it into the new one, frappeing our old blender into a frosty and delicious beverage.  The plastic-and-glass aftertaste really helped to hide the kale.

Kidding aside, Kara has actually been making use of almost all the food we’ve gotten from the farm, and though it often looks like she’s blending a rhododendron, the smoothies are delicious, especially if you don’t ask what’s in them.  The key to enjoying vegetables is to pulverize them until the particles are too small for your tongue to notice, then make sure your brain doesn’t get any clues about what they’re supposed to taste like.

So all of this is to explain why we were on the farm driveway last Saturday morning, minding our own business after picking up another bale of cabbage, when we were ambushed by the screaming creature.

“Dude!  What is that?  WHAT IS IT?” I yelled.

“SCREEEEEE!” the creature replied, flapping beside my leg.

“Stay on the road!  Calm down!  It’s just a cicada,” my wife Kara said.

“WHY IS IT SCREAMING AT ME?” I yelled.  This was not an exaggeration.  Being a parent with two young children, I have a keen ear for screams, and that bug was screaming.

If you’re not familiar with cicadas, they’re the red-eyed bugs that live underground for most of their lives.  Then, like many humans, they turn seventeen and swarm into the world to fornicate and cause havoc.

I pulled off the driveway and jumped out of the car.  The cicada crawled under my seat and dared me to go in after it. 

“I wanna see the cicada!” our son Evan called from his car seat, demonstrating more bravery than his dad, and shaming me into action.

After much reaching and prodding, I finally convinced the little critter to rejoin his friends at the farm.  Besides, if he was trying to escape all that kale, he picked the wrong car.

You can roll up your windows before Mike Todd gets in at mikectodd@gmail.com.

I Hate Missing ECDX....DAMNIT

This year I cannot make it to ECDX due to excessive travel games this year, and I'm trying very hard not to be depressed about it.  Not only am I missing out on great derby, fun challenge bouts, the awesome pool party, and meeting up with my derby friends, I'm also going to be missing out on Team USA try outs.  I wanted to attend them, not because I thought I had a chance in hell of making the team, but just to see what the process was and maybe blog about it.  Hey, I'm always thinking like a blogger!  Anyway, instead of sitting here feeling jealous about not being at the derby epicenter of the month, I'm going to try and come up with coping skills for the rest of us who are left behind!

No derby soup for me this year.

1.  Stalk your Facebook buddies' statuses to live vicariously through them.  This is a double edged sword because some of the posts are definitely going to bum you out, and some will make you excited you read them.  Also, the coverage at ECDX sucks butt for cellphones, so you might have to wait until everyone gets back to the hotels to update profiles. 



2.  Watch the wftda.tv feed.  I've been stalking their schedule page and I haven't seen a listing yet, but I know they're going to be broadcasting.  At least I'll be able to watch derby this year without my feet going numb, or my back freezing up because I stayed in my one location for SIX HOURS STRAIGHT.  I wasn't going to miss ANYTHING last year.  You can always look for your friends on the feed.  I had a bunch of people tagging me on Facebook "Hey Q!  I see you!" from last year.  That was kind of fun.



3.  Do all of the cross training.  I'm going to be doing my cross training while watching all the derby.  The only bad thing about ECDX is you can't usually do your P90X while you're watching derby...not enough room!

Good luck to the Hurticanes!  Pictures by Ashley Cohen.

4.  Do other derby stuff.  Wait, there's other derby stuff happening?  Yes.  I'm going to be doing a guest coaching stint this Saturday, and I know that there is a junior derby tournament going on too.  I'm sure leagues are still having practice, and you can always lace up your outdoor skates and go clear your head.



5.  Do "real life stuff."  Ah yes, real life stuff is calling me.  I have a house to clean, and laundry, and books to read.  I also should call my non derby friends just to prove to them that I'm still alive.



6.  Or you can sit and sulk.  Let's face it, you're probably going to sulk a little bit.  It sucks that you can't be there, so you might as well just own it.  Sulk away!  Save up for next year!  I'm hoping to be there next year myself.

A letter to my freshmeat self

I've been in derby for almost five years now, and even though that's not a long period of time in real life, it's a career in derby years.  Sometimes I look back at my early years in derby and just flinch, or sigh or smile sheepishly.   Ah, to be able to time travel and give my freshmeat self some advice!

After Ballz' and my first game.

Dear Freshmeat Q-



I'm so glad you've discovered roller derby, and I know by now you've also discovered it's not easy at all, and sometimes it's really heartbreaking.  I know you're hungry for advice, but you don't know who to listen to; listen to your future self and let me give you some guidance.



First of all, upgrade your plates.  You're skating on less than great plates and I know, you're afraid to change them out because you learned to skate on them and you're worried that you won't be as good on other plates.  Don't let that fear hold you back; when you get your new plates, you do have a short period of adjustment on them, but you get so much better so much faster!  Don't let fear of change and superstition keep you from improving your gear!



Speaking of gear, you need to stop dithering about getting a hockey helmet because you think you'll look stupid in it.  Who cares if you look stupid in it?  It's a much better helmet than that Triple Eight Sweat Saver you're tooling around in.  Just get one.  You're going to get one eventually, sooner than later would be better.



Get some good socks; I don't want you to have to live through the blister debacle three months into your freshmeat year.  Trust me, the initials MRSA are bandied about by the urgent care doctor.  It's just an ugly situation that you could head off by getting the right socks, like the Smart wool ones I wear religiously now!  Also, take a picture of your feet right now!  They'll never look that pretty again.



Work on your backwards skating!  You hate doing it, therefore you avoid it; that will bite you in the ass later on.  Last year you spent forever learning how to be proficient at it; learn how to be good at skating backwards now!  Don't leave it for the future!  Seriously, you could be spending your time working on something...anything else....like your crappy side mohawk turn.  Yes, you finally conquer that, but it was a real struggle for a season.



Start training on P90x now!  I waited until last year to start it.  We could be so much more mighty in the future if you started doing the core training now!  NOW!



Let your injuries heal.  You're going to really screw up your ankle in 2010, and you're going to come back too soon and eventually the injury is going to lead your arch slowly and painfully collapsing in your right foot.  Don't let people push you into skating too quickly again.  Rehabilitate your injury!  Collapsing arches hurt like hell!  Be kind to your body, it's the only one you get.



Realize that not everyone is going to take this as seriously as you do.  It's ok to be gung ho about derby, but stop getting personally annoyed when other people aren't.  Not everyone is going to be as into derby as you are; some people see this as a social club, or a fun work out.  Not everyone is willing to make the sacrifices that you are, and THAT'S OK!  STOP GETTING ANNOYED!



It's ok to hate derby, practice or you teammates occasionally.  Sometimes you need a break, and if you find yourself hating everyone and everything about derby, then you need to renew yourself.  Take a break, go and visit another team, get away from your league's drama and just get your head cleared.  Don't feel guilty about needing to get away, just go.



And there you have it.  You've done most of the other parts of derby right, so I can keep this letter pretty short.  Keep going, Q.  You can make it, and don't ever let anyone tell you you can't wear your pink fuzzy leg warmers.



Present Day Q

Turning four, ice cream no more

“This is our last time saying good-night to a three-year-old Evan,” I told my son on the eve of his fourth birthday, holding him out toward his mommy for a good-night kiss.

Evan dodged the kiss, looking distraught.

“Are you still going to do my bedtime routine when I’m four?” he squealed, worried that his impending graduation out of the totally-cool-if-you-go-to-the-bathroom-in-your-pants demographic might somehow derail the nightly carnival of stalling and misdirection that passes for a bedtime routine in our house. 

“Aw, buddy, of course we’re still going to do your routine.  Nothing’s going to change when you turn four tomorrow,” Kara replied, stroking his hair.

“Except four-year-olds aren’t allowed to have ice cream,” I said.

Before Kara could say, “No, that’s not true,” Evan’s face scrunched into a look of agony.  He buried his face in Kara’s shoulder and began to cry.

“Aw, buddy, I was just kidding.  You can still have ice cream,” I said over his wails.  Daddy’s sense of humor is an acquired taste, one that apparently takes longer than four years to acquire.
The next day, with some trepidation, we arrived at the gym we’d rented for Evan’s birthday party.  We’d tried to steer him toward the place in the mall that lets kids bring teddy bears to life by performing Civil-War-era surgery on the poor beasts, but Evan had his heart set on the gym.  The vast indoor basketball court must have seemed the perfect canvas upon which to paint chaos.   

“You need a minimum of ten kids for a birthday party to really work here,” the gym’s scheduler had explained to us.

This was the first party we’d attempted to host with Evan’s friends from daycare, rather than our own family friends and relatives.  We knew the other parents only as the other harried adults who staggered around the daycare parking lot under the weight of children, diaper bags and coolers.  Communicating with the other parents primarily via messages left in our kids’ cubbies, like spies afraid of using a compromised network, we received the bare minimum of responses to not cancel the party.

Ten minutes into the event, only Evan and his friend De’nae were there.  They sat at a folding table, coloring.

“We have four pizzas coming.  I hope De’nae’s hungry,” I whispered.

”I know it’s pathetic, but this is my worst nightmare,” Kara replied.

I knew what she meant.  If you are going to be the kind of person who can’t cobble together enough friends to have a birthday party, you shouldn’t have to face this cruel reality at the tender age of four.  You should find out in the seventh grade, like the rest of us.

The problem is that we were depending on people with small children, who are the most unreliable people in the world.  Even if they have the best of intentions, and the family is eating breakfast together, talking about how much fun they’re going to have at your party, there’s still an 80% chance that one of them will come down with an ear infection before noon.

“I’m done coloring!” De’nae reported.

“Why don’t you sign your name?” her mom suggested, buying us another minute.

The silence swelled and filled the room, pushing me into the hallway, which is where I saw another family from daycare headed towards us.  And then another.  And another.  I would have leapt into their arms, if I’d known their names.

“That was stressful,” Kara sighed ten minutes later, as beautiful pandemonium ensued in the gym.

On the drive home, Evan was all sweat and smiles, cake crumbs still embedded in his face.  He looked so content, I decided not to ruin it by explaining the rules about five-year-olds and cake.  That can wait for next year.
   
You can pin the tail on Mike Todd at mikectodd@gmail.com.

Respect Your Derby Creatives

Every day in derby, I see some amazing art and photography donated to leagues by various photographers, designers and illustrators.  I'm lucky that I get to work with some incredible artists, such as Punk Blocker, A Boy Named Tsunami, Joshua R. Craig, Bucket, and Eva Lye; it's a real thrill to have people want my art on their posters, and I'm glad to donate the hours and hours of time to do them, without a fee.  Usually, I only ask for credit, a couple of copies of the poster or shirt, and maybe ticket to get into the bout if it's local.  Considering that my freelance fee is usually fifty dollars an hour, it's a pretty good deal, and one service I'm happy to donate.

Art from one of the very first posters I ever did.

Unfortunately, some leagues don't have this kind of access to various photographers and artists, and have to rely on poster design by league members.  There is nothing wrong with that at all; I love to see the personality of each league being reflected in the posters and marketing materials I find.  Sometimes I even like to Google for "roller derby posters" and find some pretty amazing stuff.  The bad part of that is when I find some of MY art being used without my permission or credit.



When I notice that a league is using my artwork without permission, it's usually because one of my friends has found it on Facebook somewhere.  I'm so thankful that I have people who look out for me and my artwork, by the way.  Thank you for having my back (Thunder and Camo, just to name a few!)  Usually I can contact the league who is posting my artwork and let them know I would prefer credit for any of my art.  Most of the time the leagues in question do the right thing, and they apologize.  "I didn't realize this was your work; we're terribly sorry and will credit you."  If they link to my blog, even better!  For the most part I don't get too angry (if it's not a repeat offender), because I understand that people don't always understand how much time and effort goes into doing artwork, taking photos, or laying out a poster.  Even though most of the artists that donate their art don't want to send a "take down" order to derby leagues, it would be better for all involved if people didn't randomly "borrow" someone's art in the first place.

I did this one for fun. Don't steal it.  Ok?

Just because you found an image online, doesn't mean it's free and clear to be used.  Most roller derby art or photography is created for and by people involved with roller derby.  It doesn't just appear on the internet by magic!   It was most likely created or photographed for a specific reason, and that reason wasn't for your poster or league.  Now, if you contact the artist and ask permission to use the image, they probably will be ok with it.  I usually am pretty free with my art being used by derby leagues; but if you decided to just steal something from my site, I'm going to be a little more irate, and if you don't correct it, I'm going to be less than agreeable.  Remember, I volunteer my artwork as do other artists, and it sucks when you take advantage of a volunteer in derby.  Don't be that league who steals artwork, and yes, if you don't ask permission, you're stealing.  And don't doubt for one minute that I won't be watching to see if you're using someone else's art without permission either.  Artists have a bond, yo, almost as strong as derby girls!  Having issues with someone taking your artwork?  Try this site.

What? I write a weekly column? Get out.

"Weekly" is such a relative term, right?  This week,"weekly" means "you know, like, every week or two."  While having kids regularly makes the column impossible to write, they also provide pretty much all my material, so I can't get too mad at them.  Except when they pee on me, which is pretty often.

I submitted a slightly revamped version of this old column to the papers this week.  And I'll toss some pictures out here to make up for my degeneracy, including some shots of Evan's big rock-climbing adventure with Aunt Jill and Uncle Kris.

'Til next week!

 

 

 

Typhoid Mary keep on burnin’

“Whoa,” my wife Kara said, flinching as she opened the door to find a tiny zombie on the other side.

“Gaaaahk,” said the tiny zombie, reaching out one hand toward Kara, presumably to see if she had any spare brains.  Lucky for us, the zombie was restrained by the walls of a play yard. 

“Oh, little Ava is sick this morning.  I called her parents, they’re coming to get her,” said our son Zack’s daycare provider. 

“Gaaaahk,’ Ava agreed, fluid spewing from every cranial orifice. 

This child did not have a little cold.  She appeared to be melting.

Kara turned her back to Ava as she shuffled past, putting her hand over Zack’s face to shield him from the germs.  At that moment, she probably would have preferred to drop Zack off to play with an actual zombie for the day.  

“Fantastic.  Zack is going to catch whatever she has,” Kara said as we walked out of the daycare center.

“He still has antibiotics in his system from his last ear infection.  He’ll be fine,” I said. 

Four days later, on Memorial Day, I retrieved Zack after his long nap and held him up for Kara to behold.

“Oh, that’s not good,” she said.   

“Yeah, pretty sure his eyes are supposed to open,” I replied.  Zack looked like one of those creepy dolls whose eyes open when you stand them upright, except, like most of those dolls, his eyes were broken.  He couldn’t open them, on account of the crust binding his eyelashes together.

By a not-all-that-striking coincidence, Zack had a double case of pinkeye, just like his friend Ava.  It’s tough to be angry with Ava’s parents, who probably had some pressing concerns at work that day, but I’m managing.  If you wake up in the morning and your kid looks like an extra from The Walking Dead, even if you can’t miss a day of work, it’s time to miss a day of work.  As parents, that’s the kind of dynamic scheduling we’ve signed up for.  For some reason. 

Rather than spending our Memorial Day lounging outside by the grill, I spent it in the urgent care clinic, the only non-hospital medical facility open on Memorial Day.  Ever since Kara got charged $500 for a five-minute emergency room visit in which the doctor told her to take some Benadryl, we don’t go to the ER anymore, unless someone has self-amputated something.

By the next evening, after Kara and I juggled our schedules to take turns missing work, Zack was feeling much better.  Three days later, Kara woke up with one eye fused shut.   

After living with wildly contagious people for the past couple of weeks, I’ve become very good at not touching my face for any reason, because that is my medieval understanding of how these things work.  If I don’t touch my face, the bad juju can’t get in.  If a buzzard were to land on my forehead, I would stick out my lower lip and try to blow it off.

In any event, our family is heading back towards good health now, as fleeting as that condition seems to be for us lately.  Back at daycare, the pinkeye storm seems to have passed.  Little Ava is once again the picture of health.

“Typhoid Mary is looking good today,” I’ll whisper, and Kara will elbow me.

Of course, none of our troubles were Ava’s fault.  She doesn’t deserve to be compared with Typhoid Mary, whom you may recall as the person who gained fame in the early 20th century for infecting a minimum of fifty people with typhoid fever, killing at least three of them, probably because her parents had an important meeting that day.

You can hang out in the waiting room with Mike Todd at mikectodd@gmail.com.

Dinnertime at the asylum

“My ice cream has bunny ears growing out of it,” my son Evan reported from the dinner table.  His little brother Zack smiled, then scrunched up his face and shrieked, executing a perfect mood U-turn, his specialty.

“That’s false,” I said, and Evan nodded. 

“Can you tell me something false now?” he asked.

“There’s a T-Rex riding a scooter across the yard,” I replied.

“Now something that’s true,” he said.

“You’re a cute kid,” I replied.

Evan just learned the words “true” and “false” from his Ranger Rick Jr. magazine, which taught him that it’s false that sea otters eat cheeseburgers (the buns get too soggy).  For the past few weeks, we’ve been encouraging his ensuing fascination with true and false.  We figure it’s good preparation for school, especially since he recently bombed his first exam on purpose. 

“What do you see now?” the nurse had asked him, holding up the eye chart.

“House,” Evan replied.  He’d already done his other eye perfectly and was starting to fidget.

“Good.  How about now?” the nurse said, pointing at the next symbol.

Evan paused.  The choices were house, heart, circle and square.

“Circle-heart,” he said, laughing. 

“Evan, be serious,” I said, holding a spoon over his left eye.  His jokes were going to get us sent to the optometrist’s office.

“Square-house!” he replied, cracking himself up.  The nurse continued pointing.

“Can you point at the bigger ones?” he asked.  She shook her head. 

He relented briefly, dashing off a few correct answers before resuming his comedy routine. 

“He sees fine,” the nurse said, surrendering.  As she walked down the hall, Evan called out after her: “Circle-square!”

Back in the dining room, I took another bite of ice cream as Zack squawked.  We try to eat together as family when we can, but coordinating the effort requires its own control tower.

“Babe, can you concentrate on feeding the baby?” my wife Kara asked.  She’d just started eating her own dinner.  We eat in overlapping shifts, each person starting at a different time as the other person runs around the kitchen getting things for the kids, like culinary rounds of Row, Row, Row Your Boat. 

“On an airplane, when those masks fall down, you’re supposed to put your own mask on before assisting the child,” I said.  “Pretty sure ice cream is the same way.”

Kara looked unconvinced.  I started wielding two spoons, one with cookies n’ cream, one with strained sweet potatoes.  Zack swallowed and smacked the tray on his high chair in approval. 

“Did Anna’s baby come out yet?” Evan asked, inquiring about our pregnant family friend.

 “No, not yet.  Her tummy’s getting bigger, though,” I said.

“How does the baby get in there?” Evan asked.  For the first time in four years, our house went silent.

“Well, babies happen when the mommy and the daddy decide they want to have a baby,” I said, getting no help from Kara.

“But how does the baby get in her tummy?” Evan asked.

“It starts out in her tummy after the mommy and daddy, you know, decide they want a baby,” I repeated, hoping the same words in a different order might trick him.  Kara nodded, assuring Evan that he just received a really good answer.

“But how does the baby get in – CEMENT TRUCK!” Evan yelled as a construction truck rumbled down the street.  Just when the situation looked hopeless for our hero, the reinforcements arrived.   

Two seconds later, Evan turned back to us and said, “What’s something that’s true?”   

That’s too bad he got distracted.  I was really looking forward to explaining where babies come from.  (That’s false.)

You can mark Mike Todd with a red pen at mikectodd@gmail.com.